


It Works

by BlackandBlueMagpie



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen, What-not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:24:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandBlueMagpie/pseuds/BlackandBlueMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one is ever entirely sure why Feuilly and Bahorel get on so well, certainly they can see it happening but they can never quite put their finger on why it happens.<br/>Of course there's the history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Works

No one is ever entirely sure why Feuilly and Bahorel get on so well, certainly they can see it happening but they can never quite put their finger on why it happens.  
Of course there's the history. The boxing ring where they'd met over bruises and ice packs and claps on the back. It all spawned from there really, the story went. They met there, they got to know each other and even after Feuilly left they remained friends.  
They neglected the years that separated the boxing ring and the first drink they shared for no reason other than convenience.  
Grantaire had the most inkling that there was more to the story, but he was also the one least likely to press for tales of the past so it never left their lips.  
~~~  
Boxing had been a love of Feuilly's from a young age. As a child he'd play fight with his father, a sort of athlete himself, laughing all the while as his father would allow him to tackle him to the grass in the park and then scoop him up and throw him over his shoulder to carry Feuilly back to his mother, sitting under a tree in the shade, legs pulled up and skirt flowing around about herself as she read her book. Sometimes there'd be a picnic, they'd sit eating strawberries and his mother would read to them whichever passage of the book took her fancy, sometimes a poem or sometimes quotes from memory and imagination that flowed out of her and into the warm afternoon air.  
Sometimes it was too wet to have a picnic and Feuilly would splash about in puddles as his parents watched from under an umbrella, laughing all the while as his curls became sodden and water seeped up his trousers and over his wellie boots. Other times, if it was snowing his mother would join them in making a snowman, until his father threw the first snowball and they fell into a battle that had no sides and ended in snow angels.  
While his father was the strongest father in the world, the best at races and helping him climb trees and teaching him how to box with a cushion his mother was the best at stories. He could thank his father for his love of athletics, his mother for his imagination. She would read him a bed time story every night when he was young, or if he asked especially nicely, with cherries on top, she'd weave one together with dragons and an array of fantastical creatures and describe minutely how the princesses’ dress looked - he tries recreating these dresses in paintings to this day but has never quite succeeded.  
If she wasn't there he missed it, even if his father read him his favourite book.  
He joins the boxing club as a birthday present, and activity he quickly falls in love with. The members of the group are fun to be around, all young like himself and the matches end in laughter more often than not as they wipe the sweat out of their eyes and step aside with their arms around each other’s shoulders.  
Bahorel is, without a doubt, the loudest member of the group. Slightly older than the rest but coming into the group later, with coppery skin and dark hair and whooping from the side lines as the others sparred. He and Feuilly end up in the ring one time, circling each other with small jeers and taunts until Bahorel goes for it, Feuilly dodges and Bahorel ends up on the mat far quicker than anyone had expected.  
"Did I show you up?" Feuilly smirks when Bahorel approaches him later, watching the others.  
"You certainly reminded me to not underestimated weedy bespectacled boxers." They banter, they argue but they never really get talking properly.  
~~~  
Bahorel is surprised when Feuilly doesn't show up on Saturday. The other was usually the first one here. He supposes, at first, that maybe there's something else on, it had been his 11th birthday a short while ago, the awkward singing of happy birthday paying testament, and he'd mentioned doing something for it when his Grandparents came down. Maybe that's where he was he'd nodded to himself.  
There are only so many excuses you can make, and soon it became obvious that the dark haired boy wasn't coming back.  
He almost slipped from mind then, as old acquaintances do as teenagers.  
Bahorel was a Mama’s boy, always had been, and the oldest of four. His little sisters were there to be teased, but he'd never hesitated in standing up for them as they went through school - his detention record showing that well enough. The youngest, not yet at the embarrassed stage, threw her arms around him as he walked back through the door, returning from his final school exam.  
His mother had made cookies, sitting in the centre of the kitchen table and he dove in with a mumble of thanks through the first mouthful.  
"Don't ruin your appetite; we're going out for dinner when your father gets back."  
While his mother is homely, baking and decorating projects that have led to his room having each wall a patchwork of paint samples, his father is a working man, more distant and less hands on, but no less loving should he need to be.  
His sisters, ranging from 15 to 7, vary almost as much in personality. The eldest is sporty like him, and had been the perfect little sister for his younger self. The Second is more girly, curly haired and freckled and almost always in skirts, and the soul reason he knew how to plait hair. The third, missing teeth and hair in bunches is fascinated by everything, from butterflies to fossils and their parents had high hopes for her future.  
He himself had just finished his final exams, heading toward University in Paris after the summer was finished. He wanted to study law, following in his father’s footsteps and the city fascinated him, how you could blend in, all the things to do and the politics. The university he was going to had a history of student debate groups, political activism and rallies.  
It was perfect.  
After teary goodbyes he headed out to a bar. After his lessons he went out to the parks or the gym. His weekends and evenings were spent between pubs and meetings of political groups, picking them up and dropping them as he felt necessary.  
~~~  
It was February. The wind was still bitterly cold and bit at his face and his arms through his coat. It was too thin really, it served him well enough usually but the winter was particularly harsh and there were only so many layers he could put on.  
The bar was warm, burning his fingers as he settled at the end of the bar, buying the cheapest drink with the wages still heavy in his pocket.  
There are few people in the bar at this time, and so the entrance of the other is noticeable. He's a tall man, muscular even beneath his coat with a bruise blossoming across his cheek bone. He orders a beer and settles on a bar stool to unwind his scarf, chatting avidly with the bar man with a wide white toothed grin.  
Feuilly feels he knows him, de-ja-vu if you would, but then he recognises a lot of people from his travels through the streets of Paris so he passes it off.  
After two drinks the man notices him, coming over with a remark that lonely looking people shouldn't sit in corners or no one will relieve them of their loneliness. Up close his eyes twinkle with humour and Feuilly raises an eyebrow and retorts that he never intended to trouble him.  
"Bahorel." The other extends a hand with scars across the knuckles, Feuilly takes it with his own calloused fingers, and the comparison between the pair - coffee against his own pasty skin and broad palms against bony fingers - is remarkable.  
"Feuilly."  
"Feuilly?" Bahorel repeats, turning it over in his mind so that Feuilly can see the cogs working "Boxing." He says eventually.  
"I used to box? It looks like you box far more than I do anymore."  
"No but you're Feuilly, you floored me once."  
"I... That Bahorel?!"  
"The one and only. Where the hell did you get to anyway? You just vanished."  
"Yeah. Well, things happen." Feuilly stares into his drink. Things like car crashes, like being shipped to your grandparents as a shaking mess, things like funerals and passing from family member to family member. Things like leaving school early and leaving home at 16 and working three jobs.  
Bahorel doesn't push it.  
"You in Uni?"  
"Not all of us fancy Uni, I'm guessing you are?"  
"Law."  
"Law? You? Even with the bruises that I can only assume come from bar brawls."  
"I wouldn't have put you down as someone who wouldn't be in Uni, but there we are."  
"Can't afford it." Feuilly admits "I'd like to, but you know you don't need it to get by, and I can study things as hobbies anyway without having to worry about lessons putting me off them."  
The question is inevitable, it's one he learns to expect when people asks why he's not in Uni, or why he never has any free time to actually pursue the hobbies he speaks so fondly of.  
"Can I buy you a drink?"  
"I don't need charity."  
"Come on, I haven't seen you since we were eleven and its sheer chance we've both ended up in Paris. We should celebrate; get to know each other properly this time. And that can begin with me buying you a drink. You can buy drinks some other time."  
So they drink, they talk, they smoke. Bahorel talks of his lectures, Feuilly of his favourite job. Bahorel talks of bar fights and brawls, Feuilly of art and books. Bahorel talks about his family, his sisters and his parents. Feuilly avoids the topic until at least two months later.  
Even at the start, the first tentative steps toward friendship, in the awkwardness of conversation there are mutual interests. History, debate, politics flow in easy conversation. Sometimes they agree to disagree, other times they debate the issues hotly. Sometimes there's no debate at all.  
"I could still floor you." Feuilly tells him one night, Bahorel talking about his preferred sport.  
"I'd like to see you try."  
"Don't tempt me."  
The question of parents comes up every now and then, at certain times when Bahorel goes back to visit his own family. Eventually he stops pressing the issue and it's only then Feuilly feels he can open up to him.  
"They died. Car crash."  
"I'm sorry."  
"Don't be, it's in the past."  
~~~  
One time Feuilly doesn't show up at the bar on a Friday. The event is reminiscent of when they were thirteen, when Feuilly's parents had been killed, when he'd never shown up again.  
Bahorel panics, a little.  
He finds him eventually sitting at a bus stop underneath far more layers than should be able to fit on him, a box at his side.  
"I... I lost my flat." He admits after quarter of an hour of silence. "One of the jobs I was working at... I lost that and then I lost my flat and now I'm here."  
"Where will you go?"  
"I don't know. I've been here before, I’ll figure it out. Might just take a couple of days or so."  
"Come to mine." Bahorel finds himself saying "I need a roommate, and I know you."  
"That's charity."  
"Listen Feuilly, I don't care how stubborn you are sometimes you need charity. Besides, I need a roommate, you'd be paying rent."  
"I'll sleep on your couch for tonight, no longer."  
Of course it goes from there, an almost natural progression from Feuilly sleeping on the sofa, making breakfast as an apology, to him paying rent, moving into the room that he'd cleared in wait for a roommate. He only has an old mattress at first, he refuses to let Bahorel buy him anything and so it suffices and anything is better than the bus stop.  
Eventually he finds a slightly battered bed stead that's about to be thrown out. He offers up a small amount of money for it and lugs its back to the flat.  
Feuilly never mentions when something is wrong - a trait he attributes to his time with his grandparents, having just lost their daughter he did not wish to add to their grief, so he simply remained quiet. He doesn't mention when he's tired until Bahorel finds him passed out on the dining room table, face first in some papers. He doesn't mention his razor's blunt beyond use until the stubble on his face bears remarking on. He's never mentioned when he's hungry, even at the start when his cheeks had been hollowed out by skipped meals. He especially doesn't mention that he needs a cigarette until yellowed fingers shake so much he can hardly turn pages he takes the time to read.  
That's the only charity he'll accept, the kind in a box shoved into coat pockets. Bahorel knows an addiction isn't something to encourage, but if he won't accept more money on Bahorel’s side toward food shopping or an extra drink it's the least he can do to ease his friend.  
Feuilly tries to make himself as non-invasive as possible, learning Bahorel’s routines quickly so as to avoid disturbing him during essays or to mess up his morning routine. He eats only what he deems to be his share, even if Bahorel knows he can eat like a horse if he has the chance. His whole manner is of someone used to blending in, being small, fitting into tight spaces that he feels he shouldn't be in.  
Despite this the two become fast friends, friends out of a sort of necessity of some kind. But they eventually become friends of a different kind, friends who talk, who joke and mess around, who can argue and make up without apologies.  
"I found a new job." Feuilly tells Bahorel one day.  
"You don't need a new job, besides which you don't have enough time for another job. Don't protest you're hardly ever here, you get up at god knows what time and I'm surprised you're back before 10 today."  
Feuilly's lips press together in a thin line, like he knows it’s true and that protesting will only make it seem truer. His eyes are dark behind glasses that are 4 years out of updating, the skin around them puffy from lack of sleep.  
"If I get a new job I'll be able to afford to make up the rent I know you're cutting off my portion. I'll balance them Bahorel, besides, I like this job. Its restoration, and I know that's not proper painting but it's something and I might be able to pick up some leftover supplies or something."  
Bahorel sighs into his hand, of course talking Feuilly out of such a venture is pointless, but that doesn't stop the argument pushing at his lips and trying to spill onto the table between them.  
"Just... Take it a bit easier okay, before you make yourself ill."  
~~~  
The first time he goes Bahorel's out. The kind of 'out' that makes Feuilly put an ice pack in the freezer before he locks up. Bahorel had mentioned the Friends of the ABC before, but he'd never had the chance to go, until tonight. Typical that their schedules never quite line up enough to go together, but Bahorel's mentioned Feuilly will be going along and he might show up later. He's seen the posters in the library, had no less than 3 leaflets shoved into between him and his book by a man he now knows to be called Courfeyrac and when Bahorel had mentioned that he went to the meetings he was almost annoyed he'd never mentioned it.  
"Feuilly right? I'm L'Aigle, or Bossuet." The man holds out his hand with a large grin, strikingly white against dark skin. "Bahorel's always mentioning you; I'm surprised it took you so long to come."  
"You come into the library right?" That's Courfeyrac, leaning back over his chair, trilby hat in hand.  
"I apologise for Courf's incessant pushing of leaflets into anyone holding a political books hands." The man he recognises as the librarian says and he pauses to try and remember his name tag. "Combeferre." Joly is sat next to Bossuet, sitting on the chair sideways so the other serves as his leaning post, and he gives Feuilly a wave but keeps his scarf up around his nose.  
"He thinks he's coming down with something." Bossuet explains.  
"What do you study?" Combeferre asks.  
"I don't, I do restorations at the museum. I would've liked to do history though."  
"A man after my own heart." Feuilly thinks he recognises Grantaire from one of the bars he used to frequent, though it could have just of easily been from a bus stop after drinking, he's pretty sure there was alcohol.  
Enjolras has a commanding presence as he calls the meeting to start.  
"Might I interject?" Feuilly asks part way through a discussion.  
Bahorel has often said he could watch Feuilly speak for hours if he gets started on something he's passionate about, then again he's also tackled Feuilly more than once during his discussions of history.  
Enjolras at least seems impressed by his contribution, speaking of the plight of workers on minimum wage. The pair talk after, Feuilly stealing one of Grantaire's cigarettes for the walk home and by the end of the week he's signed up as a fully-fledged member. The group feels more like a family than the others he frequents, he can be more involved and feel more impassioned and feel like, even though he's the most recent member, he matters to the group and that he can contribute.  
They all become friends quickly, joining Bossuet for drinks on the weekends, having Grantaire crash on their couch two weekends in a row, arguing with Combeferre over the library counter - and being shushed by patrons of the library - and finally all of them ending up spread across Courf and Marius's apartment after a night of... Well Feuilly's not quite sure what but he has lipstick smeared across his cheek, Courfeyrac had managed to spread himself over no less than three people, Enjolras had a mysterious bruise and later asking around reveals truth or dare had happened. But in that moment his throat feels like sandpaper, his head is on the wrong side of thumping and his arm is dead from where Grantaire has been curled up next to him, and who knew that the cynic slept like a cat and was attracted to body heat. Grantaire's knees are pulled up to his chest, arms clutched under his chin and his head in the crook of Feuilly's elbow. Feuilly can't help but brush his hair out of his eyes as Grantaire's nose wrinkles when it tickles and the movement makes Grantaire blink awake.  
"Morning... Feuilly..." Feuilly raises his eyebrow at his surprise.  
"Morning."  
"We... I.. Uh."  
"No, you're just commandeering my arm."  
"Oh. Oh!" Grantaire makes to get up and winces against a headache.  
"Don't worry about it, no else is awake yet. I don't mind."  
Grantaire gives him a sad smile, because they both know why Grantaire had drunk himself to a hangover, and why he was curled up against anyone who would allow him to. So Feuilly shifts so his arm is slightly less awkward and the pair curl into each other again and it's simply that. They shift closer because they both need that, Feuilly maybe not as much as Grantaire but now it's happened he realises he did need the closeness, the contact, even if it means nothing in the long term two friends wrapped in each other’s arms because they can.  
The three of them grow closer over the weeks.  
Bahorel loves Grantaire, loves him for his dark, sarcastic humour, his love of drinking, his willingness to arm wrestle with him and help him with his photography.  
Feuilly loves him for his cigarettes, his art, the way he curls up with a sketchbook at the most inopportune times, the way he'll sometimes come home to find the pair playing cards while whatever Grantaire's cooked up finishes in the oven. They'll all eat off their knees and watch action films that they commentate all the way through; drink a few beers and Feuilly will insist he has to get up early tomorrow but Grantaire will sling his arm around his shoulders and persuade him to stay for just one more drink, just one more round of cards.  
~~~  
Feuilly collects coins. He collects them in a small pot that is eventually replaced by a china money box by Joly and Bossuet one Christmas; though Feuilly insists he doesn't need presents. He saves up in cents, a few here and there, a bit of loose change after shopping, those small bits of copper that have no real use other than being annoying. At the end of the month he counts it up and spends it on a shirt he's seen or some paints. Bahorel slips a few coppers in if he gets the chance, while Feuilly's out. He never has spare change as a result.  
Feuilly always donates to charities, it's the only time he'll borrow money but he can't go past a charity box without at least putting in a few cents.  
He'll go into any museum as long as it's free and will stare wistfully at any that aren't. If he has time that is, he's always joking that the only rest he'll get is when he's dead. It's a joke, but Bahorel worries none the less.  
Origami is his second favourite hobby, after painting, and if he can't get his hands on art supplies paper cranes and dragons and flowers start appearing on the coffee table and in the kitchen. Bahorel made a mobile out of them for his sister, but the rest are lined up across his law books on the shelf.  
Feuilly can't stand people talking in films, unless that was the arrangement. He'll happily commentate a film with the rest of them but if it's film night he watches them intently and hit Enjolras' leg when he remarks on the accuracy.  
His favourite music is folk music, he has a weakness for Celtic songs (But he’ll deny it if you mention it).  
Feuilly will talk about history for hours if you let him. Bahorel does, sometimes, or else pushes him off the sofa.  
Feuilly can cook, he finds one night when he didn't have to go do cleaning. He cooks cheaply and effectively, using as little as possible and chucking everything in one pan. Last time Bahorel tried that it was a disaster, but for Feuilly it works and he manages to balance everything, laughing all the while that if Bahorel can make any 'fancy' recipe why can't he make an Irish Stew. He goes into book shops and libraries to memorise the ingredients needed then works out how to cook them as he goes along.  
Feuilly never realises when someone is flirting with him. He notices everyone else’s feelings well in their group, but can't notice when the same attention is turned to him. Bahorel has steered him in the right direction more times than he can count now but even if Feuilly leaves with a girl Bahorel will always return home to find him sitting on the sofa, knees up, smoking a cigarette.  
Feuilly can sleep anywhere; on the floor, over a table, sitting up, on the sofa. He always sleeps in the foetal position, curled up with one hand looped over his knees. He's a light sleeper though, if Bahorel tries to pull a blanket over him he'll jump and mumble and blink awake.  
He's fallen asleep now, over leaflets he'd promised he'd go over for Enjolras by the Saturday meeting. His biro is still in his left hand, lightly drawing red on the paper, his cheek against his arm, other limp at his side. He sighs, lips parting. Bahorel should wake him up, not least because he'll get a crick in the neck if he stays like that. Also Feuilly will kill him in the morning, or whenever he wakes up. So he reaches over the back of the sofa and nudges him. The pen slips out of Feuilly's hand and he groans in response.  
"What?"  
"You fell asleep."  
"Shit!" He's upright is a flash, then clutching his head with a groan.  
"Go to bed."  
"Got to- I promised- Enjolras-" He tries to form the sentence and Bahorel gets up to collect up the papers and put them to the side.  
"No. You're going to sleep. Enjolras'll understand, I'll help you or something. I can manage a bit of proof reading."  
"That'd be the day." Feuilly yawns, stretching the cricks and kinks out of his spine.  
"You're not finishing them now." Bahorel tells him again, because he knows the look in Feuilly's eyes and as soon as he leaves Feuilly will be back proof reading and Bahorel will find him here again in the morning. "I'll drag you if I have to."  
He will, Feuilly knows he will because he's managed to fling him over his shoulder before when Grantaire bet him he couldn't (and kept him there indignantly until Feuilly stopped struggling), so he simply gives Bahorel a glare and gets up stiffly.  
~~~  
Bahorel is strong, but he charges headlong into things, and if it wasn't for that Feuilly would never be able to win against him. They spar sometimes, fight if Bahorel is in a bad mood because Feuilly would rather they do that than Bahorel go out and get himself smashed up with some stranger.  
He doesn't tell you if he's in pain either, he just grins and laughs through split lips and tells him about the other guy as Feuilly binds up his fingers, again.  
Despite the bar fights and the brawls and annoyances he cares. He calls his mother every week, and stays on until he's managed to speak to his sisters’ as well. He visits at least once a month, and takes Feuilly along whenever possible.  
Feuilly loves Bahorel’s family almost as much as he loves Bahorel. His mother pulls him into warm hugs when they arrive and bakes and lets him help in the kitchen. His sisters mob him and make him watch films and draw pictures for them even though he insists that's not what he does.  
He's even let the youngest braid his hair once, when it had gotten too long.  
That Christmas he gets his first Christmas gifts in years, his first Christmas in years and he can't stop grinning for the rest of the day because for ages Christmas has been a holiday for other people, something pretty to look at and dream about but not partake in. Bahorel says he's ridiculous.  
Bahorel enjoys photography, traditional and digital and he keeps scrapbooks. He'll consistently sneak up on Feuilly every time he's reading or watching TV or doing anything to try and get a non-posed photo (Because those are the best). Fingers curled around beer bottles, glancing over cards at Grantaire (And Feuilly has no idea how he took that one), curled up with his nose buried in a book his glasses slipping off his nose, asleep on notes. They're all great shots, but he's not fond of pictures of himself. He's allowed one to be placed on the sideboard next to Bahorel's, their, phone where photos of family and friends are lined up in various frames.  
Bahorel has a gap between his front teeth, you don't notice it at first even with the wide grins, it’s part of him so much that you only really notice when you get to know him.  
He doesn't take no for an answer, and Feuilly can be a force to be reckoned with himself. But Bahorel will carry you out to a restaurant, or up the stairs, or to your bed if you tell him to just give you half an hour and you'll be done. Which Feuilly supposes is a good thing, really. Just not when it's you that's on the receiving end.  
Bahorel’s ambidextrous, especially with sports. He can fight in numerous stances, switching between them to the bafflement of anyone who’s not used to it. He favours his right hand for writing, because it saves him smudging his work, but every now and then you find points in essays where he switched hands.  
He’s not aggressive; he’s actually really hard to get wound up. Generally he’s laid back, laughing off jokes and jibes, but as soon as the jibes are directed toward his friends, or even a random stranger, he won’t hesitate to step in if the other person wishes him to. He’s fiercely loyal and swears like a sailor (But then so does Feuilly).  
He loves to cook; sometimes Feuilly will come in at 10.30 to find him leaning against the kitchen cabinet eating cake mix as the smell of baking fills the room. He uses as many pots and pans as possible if he’s making dinner and refuses to use microwave food. His food is always spicier than it should be.  
He sings as he cooks; a baritone voice that is neither professional nor poor. If he and Musichetta team up for karaoke competitions they’re unbeatable. He enjoys opera, amongst rock and roll and Buddy Holly. He dislikes suits, even if he does like to look good.  
He enjoys sci-fi and fantasy, if he has the chance to read.  
He takes up more space than should be possible, sprawling out across sofas with limbs across anyone who happens to be in the other seats. Feuilly’s given up protesting. He just laughs, deep and booming and ringing around the room. He is loud, in speech and clothing and in opinion. He makes a great debating partner, if he doesn’t get fed up and push you off the arm of the sofa.  
Bahorel steals Feuilly's cigarettes from the others fingers, laughing as Feuilly swears at him because cigarettes are expensive.  
Bahorel doesn’t talk about emotions, not technically. Feuilly’s not quite sure how it works, but you go out to drink and come back feeling like all the weight has been lifted from your shoulders.  
~~~  
They're friends. Not out of necessity, nor loyalty. Not out of nostalgia, or charity or duty. Not because of right place, right time or fate.  
They're friends simply because they are.  
Because they clash yet they fit together, they move around each other and know what the other is thinking without words.  
No one knows Feuilly better than Bahorel, and, he dare says, no one knows Bahorel better than Feuilly.  
They're still learning, of course. Learning fears and loves and secrets, making mistakes. They argue, they don't say sorry.  
For the first time since his parents died Feuilly doesn't feel like he's alone. Likewise, Bahorel has someone he can be more himself around.  
One throws something, the other catches it. They remain in tune without being invasive.  
It works because they don't try and make it work.  
And they're never letting it go.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know where this came from?  
> It just kind of happened and then expanded into 5000+ words...


End file.
